The Wind of March
by Priestess of Dan
Summary: The writer's humble attempt to write thirty-one, 500-word ficlets about women in the Silmarillion during March.
1. Bosky

Author's Note: I decided to write thirty-one, 500-word, _Silmarillion_-based ficlets for March (Women's History Month, natch) yesterday because I needed distraction from some personal problems, and then I realized that I might as well post the results and do it on International Woman's Day. The words are from Merriam-Webster's word of the day, and they're more _inspiration_ than actual prompts.

Enjoy! Or, you know, don't. I can't control you.

**Bosky**, adj., (1) _having abundant trees or shrubs_ (2) _of or relating to a woods_

Idril knew that they hadn't been followed, not this far, but she was still fearful. She didn't want to wait in this forest for much longer, but Tuor was right. They were tired from the exertion and the horror of the last few days, and they needed to rest.

She couldn't help but suspect, though, that Tuor had his own reasons for wanting to tarry. Sirion sang with Ulmo's power here, and he seemed so content to sit by the river and close his eyes. Their son joined him in repose, and Idril knew that he was as lost to her as his father. The sea called them, and Idril knew not what to do.

Meleth came to sit beside their princess as she watched the river flow, and Idril wished that she knew what to say to her son's nurse. The woman had been an invaluable help to Idril when they fled their city's destruction and headed south, and she owed her kindness. Yet, Meleth would not permit any generosity from her employer. Meleth's pride was immeasurable, even to one who had been taught in the Blessed Realm, and Idril was often befuddled by her self-sufficient servant.

"When will we continue our journey, milady?" Meleth asked frankly. That was another aspect of her that Idril found bizarre – her bluntness. She was no Valinorean maid well-versed in literature written by the best minds to ever live or reared to appreciate wit and song. She was a matter-of-fact Grey Elf, and though she appreciated her candor, Idril found it off-putting at times too.

"Soon," the princess promised.

"The sooner the better, milady," Meleth said. "The more we tarry, the better target we are. Nargothrond and Doriath can no longer keep the roads free and safe."

"I know," Idril said quietly.

The trees swayed in the wind, and Idril shivered despite the fact that it was not nearly cold enough to make an Elf uncomfortable. There was cause for Nan-Tathren to be desolate when there was a river blessed by Ulmo, and Idril was not so enamored with the Blessed Realm that she was willing to ignore her foresight only to rest by the river a day longer. The wood was tainted.

"We move tomorrow," she swore, and Meleth nodded once, her entire body relaxing.

They would follow the Sirion south to Mouths, where the refugees from Doriath and Nargothrond lived now. Their harmony might be disturbed by a sudden increase in Noldor – many of them Kinslayers now that the House of the Wing had fought the House of the Mole – who had followed princes other than the sons of Earwen, but until the current leaders told them to go, it would be a safe place to rest and recuperate.

Idril closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. She had heard from the Eagles that one of children of Dior and Nimloth had survived the Kinslaying there, and it would be good for Earendil to have a playmate like himself. It would be fine.


	2. Thimblerig

**Thimblerig**, vb., (1) _to cheat by trickery_ (2) _to swindle by a trick in which a small ball or pea is quickly shifted from under one to another of three small cups to fool the spectator guessing its location_

"Go on, guess!"

Findis frowned at her younger sister, who was smiling too largely for there to be nothing amiss. Lalwen was true to her mother-name, as all Noldor were, but sometimes her laughter was at others' expense.

"That one," she pointed to the cup that she swore she saw hold the ball last, before Lalwen began to move it about, but Lalwen laughed aloud and lifted it. There was nothing there.

"It was this one," she revealed, and she lifted the furthest cup from Findis. "Do you want to try again?"

"No." Lalwen's face fell, and so Findis said (_lied_, the voice of a better version of herself supplied), "I have to do some work. – Where did you learn this game anyway?"

"Nerdanel taught me."

"Nerdanel?" Findis had thought better of her sister-in-law (half-sister-in-law?), but it was true that Mahtan and his family were strange. They had lived too long by Aule and his forge, and even now Mahtan did not honor Finwe as he should honor his king. Their father excused him and told his eldest daughter once that the father of his son's wife should think of him as kin, first and foremost, but Findis thought it another example of Finwe excusing Feanaro's bad behavior and those of his associates because of his love for his firstborn. "You would be better off learning sculpture from her, Irime."

"How dull!" Lalwen said. "Can't you play another round?"

"I suppose so," her elder said reluctantly. She thought of a couple things she could do to prove to her sister that she had needed to do work, but she did not want to disappoint Lalwen either. "You should think of developing a useful skill, Lalwen."

"Then what would you scold me for, hmm?"

Her sister covered the ball with a cup, and the game began anew.

"I think that your preposition towards petty trickery and silliness would be reason enough."

Lalwen laughed, and the sound made Findis's heart sing. "You could begin to pick on me for not having any suitors yet. Mother has, but she thinks that everyone should be in love."

"Mother should think of other things, but what can one expect of a woman named 'Indis'?"

"What do you think of, Fanayelde? The clouds?"

"It is my job. I think of other things too. – Do you think only of laughter?"

"I like to make people happy. Laughter is a part of that." The cups stopped.

Findis pointed to one at random. "I'm not happy right now."

"No, but you're not bored either." She lifted up the cup and revealed that the ball was in fact underneath. "Is this not better than spending your day off helping Mother with her needlework or making calls with Aunt Iminye?"

"It isn't."

Lalwen laughed. "Liar." She set the cup on top of the ball again, and the game began anew. "There are far worse people to spend your day with than your sister, you know."

"I know. – That one!"

It wasn't.

**Notes:**

Findis Fanayelde and Irime Lalwen are the daughters of Finwe and Indis. Findis is the eldest child, and Lalwen was between Fingolfin and Finarfin. Finwe's daughters had a lot of stuff about them that wasn't published in the _Silmarillion _proper, some of it contradictory or confusing, so I had to play around with some of it.

Findis therefore has as her mother-name Fanayelde ("cloud-daughter"), which would be the Quenya form of the Sindarin Faniel, which was either an old name for one of them or a third sister who was erased or forgotten about. I figure that makes her some sort of weather specialist. The only thing that is really known about Findis is that she went to live with the Vanyar with her mother, but I figure she could have gone for her own reasons rather than her mother's. Lalwen becomes an Exile and might be the grandmother of Voronwe, but I'm not too crazy about that piece of fanon.

Indis, by the way, means "bride".


	3. Abandon

**Abandon**, noun, _a thorough yielding to natural impulses, especially enthusiasm, exuberance_

Irisse laughed with abandon, and Anaire tried not to scowl or roll her eyes. Irisse was her daughter, and she loved her dearly; but she wished that the girl would show a lick of sense more often.

It was times like these that she wished there were more daughters in the House of Finwe. The High King of the Noldor only had two daughters and two granddaughters by blood, and he tended to indulge them, though not as much as he indulged his eldest. Indis was no better, for the Vanyar considered children gifts and delights and never punished them for "high spirits". Anaire came from a stricter environment, however, and she was not willing to wave off her daughter's action as "youthful larks" or the consequences as "nothing too bad". Findekano and Turukano had never caused her such trouble, and she did not see why she should hold Irisse to a different standard.

"It is nothing to laugh about," she told her instead, and she wished again that she had a daughter more like herself, thoughtful and scholarly, before hating herself again for not loving her difficult daughter unconditionally. "You are nearly fully-grown, and you need to start thinking about acting your age instead of behaving like a child with little to no self-restraint."

"Grandmamma laughed," she said, and she tossed her hair like a proud horse. Her smile had not faded.

"I apologize, but I am your mother, not your grandmother. You will notice that I have neither Indis's golden hair _nor_ her tolerance for your foolishness."

Irisse scowled. "You're so _dull_."

"Do not mistake _common sense_ for _dullness_, Istafinde Irisse. It will end badly for you, mark my words." And Anaire knew it to be true. She wondered if her high-spirited daughter would never learn her lesson, or if this was just a vision to spur her on as she scolded her daughter.

"No one minds Aunt Lalwen, though she still acts like a maid."

"Many people mind your aunt, and they disapprove of her behavior and your grandparents' tolerance for it." Anaire decided not to name any names because she did not wish for her empty-headed daughter to reveal that Aunt Findis had taken off to the hinterlands merely to avoid her family, not – as she claimed – in order to do her work. "I think you need to think more seriously about your behavior and your place in the world, Irisse. Allow me to aid you in this by confining you to your rooms for the next week."

"Mother!"

"You cannot dissuade me from this course, and don't think of appealing to your father either." Anaire would speak to him next. "This is my decision, and it is final."

"I hate you!"

"And I hate being embarrassed in public, so it is only fair that you share my unhappiness today. _Goodnight_, Irisse. I will speak with you when I bring you breakfast in the morning."

Anaire closed the door behind her.

Now to write that essay.

**Notes:**

Istafinde (Isfin) was a rejected name for Aredhel, so I decided to make it her father-name. I think Irisse (Ireth) eventually became either her father-name or her mother-name but can't remember, and I decided to make it her mother-name because Aredhel (lit. "noble elf") is a very strange name to give to a princess of the Noldor. _Of course_ she's a noble elf. I think it might have been a name given to her later in Middle-Earth that was meant as an insult about her pride and arrogance, but she liked it.

Anaire is her mother and thus Fingolfin's wife.


	4. Paltry

**Paltry**, adj., (1) _inferior, trashy_ (2) _mean, despicable_ (3) _trivial_ (4) _meager, measly_

Nienna saw Man more clearly than any other Vala, and she pitied them. She pitied them their short, pathetic lives and their cruel dispositions and their petty concerns and their small victories and minor defeats. Yet, in spite all this, the Mistress of Death understood them and loved them dearly. She loved them for her joy and their despair, for their hatred and their love, and for their triumphs and their failures.

They were like the flames of candles flickering in the wind, who knew all too well that they were destined to be blown out and yet continued with their lives. Their valiant deeds were all the more valiant and honorable because they would not be re-housed in the Blessed Realm, and no one knew where they went after their deaths besides the All-Father alone. Many believed that they went beyond the Circles of the World to live with the All-Father in harmony, but nothing had been promised.

She wept for them because their ends were ends, and they knew it. They accepted their mortality, content or bitter or angry, and they could not escape the knowledge that each day could be the last they spent on Creation. It was bittersweet when they went, for Nienna admired them as much as she pitied them.

"Why do you care so much for them?" Yavanna asked her once. Yavanna hated those who she once loved, for they had destroyed her forests and plains and devoured her fruits and vegetables like locusts.

"They are the Children of Eru and loved by Him," she said, and she added, "and they remind me that what is small or short is not necessarily pathetic or trivial. They have their place in the Song as much as the Firstborn do, and they will answer when the time comes."

Yavanna's face fell, and she now looked like the Queen of the Earth instead of its avenging protector. "Are you certain, Nienna? They are short-lived and changeable, and it has been many years since they remembered us."

"They have not forgotten those who have treated them kindly," she said, for many Elves had returned to the Blessed Realm these past couple centuries with tales from human "mythologies", "and I do not think that they are as mean and hard-hearted as you think them. They are capable of as much kindness and goodness as they are cruelty and greed, and all they need is the opportunity to show the world that."

Yavanna did not respond for a time, and then she said, "You always think the best of people, even when they don't deserve it."

Nienna ignored the reference to one of the few times when she regretted giving a person her pity. "They deserve it. Have hope."

"I will leave hope to you, my friend. Allow me to be the cynic."

"You should believe in the children of the earth. They believe in you."

_Jord, Demeter, Gaia_.

"But do they remember their fiercest defender?"

_Nyx, Nott_.

"Not well."


	5. Allusion

**Allusion**, noun, (1) _an implied or indirect reference especially in literature; the use of such references_ (2) _the act of making an indirect reference to something_**_,_**_ the act of alluding to something_

"Have you decided yet?"

Eldalote's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but she had not become accustomed to it yet. A lifetime spent singing and dancing in the light of the Two Trees did not make it easy for her to live under the dim light of the stars and the lamps that the people who served her husband's half-uncle had lit throughout the city.

"What do you mean?"

Amarie shot her a look, and Eldalote knew that she was being purposefully difficult. How could she not do it when the Vanya seemed determined to be as vague as she possibly could be? – Eldalote understood that Amarie's loyalties lied with the Valar, but that did not mean that she could not be upfront about such things. The Valar, with a notable exception for Varda when she and Manwe were not preoccupied as the Elder King and his queen must now be, could not hear every whisper.

"I meant, Do you intend to do as Feanaro recommends?"

"Feanaro recommends many things, Amarie. Few follow all of his strictures." Even now, Eldalote spoke as the Noldor did and not as Feanaro's followers and the Vanyar with their lisps.

Amarie did not relax, and she pulled the hood of her cloak more carefully over her head to hide her golden hair from the Noldor. From Findarato. "You know what I mean, Eldalote."

She sighed. The game was over, and now it was time to be honest. "I have not, no."

"Has Angarato?"

"If he has, he has said nothing of his decision to me." Her husband was too blunt to dance around the issue as Eldalote and Amarie were now, so Eldalote did not doubt that she would know of his decision whenever the sons of Arafinwe finished their debate.

"Will you decide based purely on whatever he chooses, my friend?"

"No, but I must consider his choice, if only for Artaresto's sake. It is unnatural for a husband and a wife to separate during their child's minority." Look only at what happened to Feanaro, she wanted to say. His mother died, and his father remarried; now Finwe was dead and Feanaro was determined to make war on Melkor and take all the Noldor with him to a land few of them had ever seen. "Will you go where Findarato leads?"

"We are not even betrothed, and I am not a Noldo."

"Elenwe goes with Turukano," Eldalote insisted.

"Elenwe and Turukano have a child together. What binds me to your people?"

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat politely, and they turned to look.

Angarato stood near them. "My brothers and I have decided to go. As have my father and sister."

Eldalote nodded. "Thank you."

He walked off to give her time to consider this news on her own, and then she said to her friend:

"I will go. Will you?"

Amarie turned her head and would not meet her eyes, and Eldalote's heart sunk. "I have not decided yet."

Notes:

Eldalote (Edhellos, in Sindarin) is the wife of Angrod and the mother of Orodreth in The People of Middle-Earth, in which Christopher Tolkien admits that he misread some of his father's notes (gasp). I don't remember whether there is a definitive answer as to whether she becomes an Exile or stays, but I would assume that she was an Exile because she has a Sindarin equivalent to her name. (She is thus the grandmother of Finduilas and Gil-galad as well.)

Amarie is Finrod's sweetheart who he left in the Blessed Realm, which is mentioned in one line in The Silmarillion.

This story might be a stretch for "allusion", but I did purposefully keep them from mentioning the Exile. So, yeah.


	6. Meritorious

**Meritorious**, adj., _worthy of reward, gratitude, honor, or esteem_

Mortal women, Luthien had heard, did not often bear arms or fight, for they were deemed too delicate or too valuable to make war, depending upon the Mannish man who was doing the arguing. To be fair, female Elves did not bear arms often either, but they did not fight due to their own inclination. They were creators, not destroyers, and the Elvish men who fought too only did so out of necessity, not desire.

Luthien was trained in combat, for she had been born before her mother erected her Girdle, and she hunted and practiced often to keep her skills fresh. Her talent for magic had prevented her from needing to use any of those skills, particularly when she had Beren to do that, and better than she could, but she knew how and Beren had never spoken against it. She had been surprised, given what she knew of Mannish men, but she had not thought it strange that a man who had been self-sufficient for years before he met her was glad of her own capabilities.

She had not thought to wonder about his own family. Honestly, she had imagined them all dead.

Emeldir daughter of Beren – and mother of another man by that same name – still lived, however, and she was just as fearsome a warrior as her son. Had she not taken Beor's People through Nan Dungortheb, most of them women and children? It was no wonder where Beren had gotten his valor and strength, then.

"So you're Thingol's daughter," Emeldir said.

She lived with her sister-in-law Bregil, a widow, and neither of them were happy that Luthien was here. She was not the Mannish maid they hoped Beren would bring home, if he still lived, and she was not even an Elf. Luthien knew that she seemed like one of those legendary fays of whom travelers spoke, who enthralled and enchanted the young men who crossed their paths.

Emeldir did not wait for her response. "You kept my son alive. – Well, you brought him back from the dead, which is the same thing to me."

"Not to me."

Emeldir considered her. "I'd hope not, milady."

"Please, call me 'Luthien'."

"You may call me 'Emeldir'."

"I heard the whispers as Beren brought me here. They call you the Man-Hearted," Luthien said, though she did not wish to call her mother-in-law such a thing.

Emeldir snorted. "Fools. They think a woman can't lift a sword without being mannish."

"I do not understand the ways of Men."

"Don't try. It'll make your head hurt. – You don't fight."

"I can, but I'd rather not."

"Wise, aren't you? 'Course, at your age, I'd expect it."

Luthien laughed. "If you are asking me my age, I cannot tell you it. We reckoned time differently before the Sun and the Moon, and so there is no point in calculating it. I will remain young until I die again."

"Is that your reward?"

"It is my gift. I will endeavor to deserve it."

**Notes:** I don't know if it's canon or not (I can't break out the books because I'm at school now), but for some reason, I thought Beren was trying to reach Brethil and the wives and children of the Beorings when he left Ladros.

Bregil was Barahir's oldest sister and the grandmother of Brandir the Lame.


	7. Gnomic

**Gnomic**, adj., (1) _characterized by aphorism_ (2) _given to the composition of aphoristic writing_

Paper, Boromir told his elder daughter seriously, was expensive. They couldn't afford to buy paper merely to let her scribble her thoughts on when a slate would do just as well and could be reused for her sister's writing practice later. Andreth had given Beril a fierce glare before stomping off to sulk on the edges of their camp.

It wasn't fair! Andreth had a lot of good ideas that shouldn't be erased so Beril could learn how to write. Beril wasn't as clever as she was, anyway, and neither was Bregor. Everybody said that Andreth was the clever one in the family, though King Finrod said it differently than Grandma did, and so they should let her do what she liked.

_That_ was a good idea, and she was trying to think of a clever way to tell Papa that when a heavily-accented voice said, "What's this, then, Adanel?"

Andreth looked up to find two women staring down at her. One was Adanel, who was the wife of her father's second cousin Belemir and the daughter of Malach, and so Andreth knew her fairly well. She was the mother of Elluin and Elloth besides, and they were friends of hers. The other woman Andreth didn't know. She was much shorter than Adanel, who was very tall, and she had hair that was somewhere between Adanel's golden hair and Andreth's brown. She probably used to be pretty, but now she was about Mama's age and had grey running through her hair.

"This is my kinswoman Andreth," Adanel said. "She's Boromir's daughter. – Andreth, what's the matter?"

"Papa won't let me have paper to write down my wisdom."

The unknown woman pressed her lips together very tightly, and Adanel said, "That's too bad."

"I'm going to persuade him otherwise."

"I wish you well," Adanel said seriously. "Perhaps you can go play with Elluin and Elloth while you prepare your arguments, for Boromir will be in the meetinghouse with us for the rest of the day. We are to debate the offers made to us by King Finrod and High King Fingolfin."

Andreth nodded. "Papa wants to accept King Finrod's offer."

The unknown woman scoffed. "He would, Beor's great-grandson that he is. We'll decide in council what to do, and you can stay out here and prepare your arguments."

"I'll win."

"I'm sure."

She sounded sarcastic, so Andreth insisted, "_I will._"

Her expression softened, and she said in her strange accent, "Aye, I know that you will, but this might be an argument you'll want to put off for a few years. Build up your knowledge, girl, and wait until you're older to write down your wisdom. The secret of success is patience."

She spoke in Taliska, but she said "patience" in Grey Elven – _Andreth_.

Andreth giggled, and the women went inside the meeting house together. Outside the door stood two of the guardswomen who protected the Lady Haleth, and they followed the women inside after the unknown woman gave a quick nod.

**Notes:**

The heavily-accented woman is Haleth of the Haladin, if I didn't imply that _too_ heavily. Likewise, if I didn't imply that this is the Council at Estolad heavily enough (with Bereg and Amlach), it is. Boromir's going to take Finrod up on his offer to become Lord of Ladros, and Malach is going to stay in Hithlum with Fingolin for a while before the House of Hador begins to confuse me by moving hither and thither whenever I get too complacent.

Andreth is a future wise-woman called "Saelind" (wise-heart) and the future love interest of Aegnor (read Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth if you get the chance, it's in _Morgoth's Ring_), and Adanel is her distant relation and a wise-woman who mentored her.


	8. Indoctrinate

**Indoctrinate**, vb., (1) _to instruct especially in fundamentals or rudiments, teach_ (2) _to imbue with a usually partisan or sectarian opinion, point of view, or principle_

"I'm not listening," Nielique said tartly, before the other Maia could do more than greet her with that sly look on her face, and Mease laughed viciously.

"Did I upset you so much last time we spoke, my teary-eyed maiden? Will you go sobbing to your mistress about how cruel and monstrous Measse of Tulkas's people is?"

"I cannot understand you, nor you, me, so I do not see the point in our speaking at all. Go back to your war games, Gory One, and I will return to my _weeping_. I will thank you to allow me peace, so I might reflect on the scars that Arda Marred now bears."

"Scarred it is," Measse agreed, too readily, "and there will be more scars ere the End of Days. Yet, so many Elves and Men – and Dwarves – could be spared if the Valar decide to make war on Melkor. Would you not prefer it to the senseless death and destruction?"

"You don't fool me," Nielique said. "I know that your only objection to the _senseless death and destruction_ in Middle-Earth is that you are not there to enjoy it yourself." Indeed, Nielique mused, Measse would much rather be the one to slay the foul things that befouled Endor than to allow another to do the same, no matter what ideologies she espoused nowadays, and before the Noldor went and the way was closed to them all, she and her brother had often gone to do just that as Orome did the same.

"I am monstrous, am I not?" she mused, but she sounded pleased, not upset. "And yet, we can work together but have different purposes. But perhaps cowardice stays your hand, not tender feelings."

It took Nielique a moment to realize that she had slapped Measse across her face, and then she pulled her hand to her side and stepped backwards, fearful of the repercussions. She should not have feared. Measse rejoiced in violence, even when it was directed at her.

She laughed. "You _do_ have spirit. Perhaps you will serve when it comes time to fight Melkor again." Measse rolled her shoulder, and her eyes shone brightly. There was little she would not enjoy about that day, Nielique knew.

"Surely it will not come to that," Nielique said weakly.

Measse scoffed. "Come, my girl. See reason. The other ways of dealing with this problem were closed to us long ago, and now we can only fight. Either you will, or you won't. I shall know why when that day comes." The Maia left her fellow's side to join her brother and Lord Tulkas where they were encouraging some wrestlers.

Nielique clenched her fist, which still felt warm on the palm from when she had slapped Measse. She would need to learn how to fight, would she not? She would not like for Measse – _anyone_ – to think her a coward. Nielique had much to do, for who knew when the Valar would decide to marshal their forces and attack?

**Notes**:

Measse is obviously a version of Measse from _The Book of Lost Tales_. There she was a Vala with her brother Makar, but the Professor got rid of these bloodthirsty Valar in later drafts. It's entirely understandable why, but I liked her for my purposes. So, I demoted them to Maiar and put them in Tulkas's service.

Nielique is less obviously named after Nieliqui, the daughter of Orome and Vana in the same book. She got removed because Valar could no longer have children (sensible), but after I discovered that in later Quenya "nie" means "tear" and "lique", "wet", I repurposed her name and made her a Maia in the service of Nienna.

The Sapphic undertones (overtones?) weren't intentional at first, but once I realized it, I rolled with it.


	9. De Rigueur

**De Rigueur**, adj., _prescribed or required by fashion, etiquette, or custom, proper_

There were several horrified gasps as Gilwen emerged from her bedroom, grinning broadly and twirling as if she were modeling for an admiring audience instead of her shocked family. Her mother blanched and looked like she were about faint, and her grandmother turned red, her lips pursed as though she were trying to keep several cruel or rude expletives from escaping her mouth. Hirwen, her second sister, stood up suddenly and left the room, and it was left to Bregil, her eldest sister, to say, "What an interesting look you have chosen for yourself, Gilwen."

"Don't you like it, Bregil?" Her eyes were wide and dark, and she looked younger than her sixteen years.

"It isn't proper," she said gently.

"Why not?"

"_You are wearing trousers!_" her grandmother exclaimed.

"It's very fashionable amongst Elvish women," Gilwen assured her.

Her grandmother shuddered with repressed rage. "Amongst _Sindarin_ women."

"What's the difference?"

"Of course there is a difference! Would you accuse Lady Galadriel of being a common Wood Elf?"

"Grey Elf," her daughter-in-law corrected quietly.

"Why shouldn't I? She lives amongst them in Doriath, and I heard that she intends to travel east and to live amongst Silvan Elves. I don't think that she would be offended."

"You –! You –!"

"Gilwen," Bregil cut in before her grandmother could die of apoplexy. "It is for the best if you take your _very_ fashionable outfit off and change into a dress. What is the custom amongst the Grey Elves is not the custom for the House of Beor." She thought it was a very moderate, peaceful comment to make.

She had forgotten that Gilwen had inherited their grandmother's temper. "I won't! They're my clothes, and I bought this outfit with my very own pin-money. You cannot force me to do anything against my will."

"You are underage," her mother pointed out. "You are under _my_ control, and I – I demand that you change at once. I forbid you to wear it."

"You cannot! I am my own person, and I will not be bullied."

"It is not _bullying_ –"

"I'll tell Aunt Andreth that you are _repressing my soul!_"

"Tell her what you like. _She_ isn't your guardian," her grandmother told her sternly. "I refuse to allow you to go around dressed like one of those savage Wood Elves."

Gilwen set her jaw.

Hirwen returned then with Aunt Andreth training after her.

"Gilwen can wear what she wants."

"You might be my daughter, Andreth, but –"

"I hear Lady Galadriel wears trousers from time to time too," the wise-woman of the Beorings said, and she added in a lower voice. "This is not the scandal you are making it out to be, Mother. The more you disapprove of an outfit, the more she likes it and will stand by it."

Her ladyship scowled, but her daughter-in-law said, in a soothing tone, "I suppose you must do as you like, Gilwen, but I cannot like it. Pray, think before you wear it out."

"_Fine._"

**Notes:**

Andreth is, again, Boromir's daughter, and the grandmother is Boromir's unnamed but presumably existing wife, seeing as he had three kids. The mother is the unnamed wife of their only son Bregor, and Bregil, Hirwen, and Gilwen (in that order) are Bregor's daughters and the older sisters of Barahir, thus Beren's aunts.

I used "Galadriel" instead of Artanis or Nerwen because I figure Galadriel must have changed her name around the time of the ban on Quenya, and the translation of neither name was provided in Tolkien's notes (though they can be assumed to be "Aradis" and "Dirwen"). She and Celeborn are about to go over the Misty Mountains and thus avoid the worst of the First Age.


	10. Relict

**Relict**, noun, (1) _a surviving species of an otherwise extinct group of organisms; a remnant of a formerly widespread species that persists in an isolated area_ (2) _something left unchanged_

"Is this uncomfortable for you?" the lady in green asked the lady in purple with a lack of finesse that would amaze those who knew her by her works. The Needlewoman had always had a frank way about her, though.

She had come to the festival with her silver hair unbound and unadorned, and she looked the lovelier for it in the face of so much ostentation from her former subjects. Miriel Therinde, queen though she may have been, had always been a needlewoman first and foremost, and she had never cared for gems or metalworking. How strange it was that her family's destiny had revolved around three gemstones.

Indis had worn her queen's coronet, which had been made for her by Mahtan after she married. Finwe had ordered it done, and Indis still did not know if his commission had been due to his fear that his first queen's coronet was unlucky or that he did not want her wearing the coronet of the wife he had loved first and better. Indis tried not to think of it, honestly. It did not matter now that Finwe was in Mandos until the hour of the Last Battle.

It was only a coronet, and yet Indis felt gaudy next to Miriel's simplicity. She had come with Ingwe, however, and she needed to look like the widow of one High King, mother to two others, and the niece to a fourth. Miriel came with Vaire and her ladies, and she did not need to dress like a queen for everyone to know who she was. Everybody in the Blessed Realm knew her on sight, and some hated her merely because of the son she had born. It was for the best that she not draw undue attention on the day of a festival.

"Why would I be uncomfortable?"

Miriel smiled, but there was no joy there. "Here I stand, the first woman your husband loved and the mother of the son who hated you and your children, who raised his sons to hate your grandsons – though I understand that he did not succeed entirely on that score. Everyone in Creation knows our story, and yet you claim you do not feel a bit of embarrassment to meet me in the sight of so many?"

"We must meet, and better that we meet in public. That way no one will gossip about us."

"They don't need our help to gossip about us," Miriel informed her. She glanced over to where Ingalaure sat with Findis while Earwen danced with Ingwe. "Be happy that you have some of your children about you, my dear fellow wife. I will not meet my son or grandsons until the end of the world. Until then, I remain."

"What of my children and grandchildren who are lost to me?" Indis asked.

Miriel was said even before her death to have the Sight, and now she worked for Vaire. Surely she knew.

"They return to you sooner than you think."

**Notes:**

Miriel Therinde and Indis are, obviously, the first and second wives of Finwe, and Findis and Ingalaure (i.e., Finarfin) are Indis's only children to stay in Valinor.

I figure that Mandos would keep Feanor and his sons until the Dagor Dagorath, if only to prevent violence breaking out when the leaders of the Kinslayers are re-housed. The descendants of Indis probably will be, if much later than we would assume. (Finrod obviously got a deal worked out if he's out with his father by the time the Silmarillion was written.)


	11. Cajole

**Cajole**, vb., (1) _to persuade with flattery or gentle urging, coax_ or _to obtain from someone by gentle persuasion_ (2) _to deceive with soothing words or false promises_

"_Please_," Beril begged. "I will do _anything_."

"There is nothing you can offer me, so hush."

"_Please._"

Andreth rolled her eyes, then scolded herself for impatience. "Will you calm yourself, Beril? All you are doing right now is making me irritable. – No one intends to hinder your betrothal, and me least of all. Please, go about your business, and leave me to mine."

"It is against our customs for a younger daughter to marry before her elder sisters," Beril said as though her elder sister did not know their own customs.

"Then you must reassure all your scandalized wedding guests that your sister is very happily married to her books and has no intention of divorcing them, thereby shaming you and your husband."

"I know you like to think that you are above all that nonsense, but people will talk, Andreth. What shall I say to them when they ask? 'Oh, Andreth is in love with our lord, and she is convinced that he loves her in return. Yes, I know he is an Elf, but she is stubborn and romantic.'"

Andreth could feel his face heat, but she kept her voice quiet to prevent their parents from hearing this _chat_ through the door. That did, however, not keep her from becoming sharp-tongued. "Are you not romantic, Beril? Shall I tell your thick-headed betrothed that you love him not?"

"_Do not dare!_"

"_Keep your voice down!_" Andreth hissed. "In the name of the Powers, you are a fool! Papa and Mama have blessed your betrothal, and no one will oppose their wishes, least of all the family that you wish to marry into. Those who wish to gossip about me might, and I will not care. I know myself, and I do not mind their whispers. I am not as soft-skinned as you."

"No, but you are far more hard-headed. Why can you not marry? Don't you want children of your own, and independence to do as you might?"

"A husband would not provide me with that, nor children," Andreth said dryly. Then she said, "Yes, I want a child of my own, but I am not willing to settle for a husband I merely _like_ or can _tolerate_. I will either marry the man I love or have no other."

"Aegnor is no Man, and he is not a mere Elf either. He is a prince of his people."

"Does that mean that he cannot love me?"

"No, but – It makes it doubtful that he will _marry_ you."

"Then I should be unfaithful and marry another, thus preventing him from ever marrying me?"

"I did not mean that. But shouldn't you be the one who is practical, not me?"

The elder sister smiled and said, "Let us take turns at being romantic fools. You may have tomorrow if you'd like it, and I will have the day after that. Does that seem fair?"

"_Please_ reconsider. You are so pretty, and anyone would be glad to call you his wife."

Notes:

Again I return to Andreth, who I think might be my favorite character from the First Age now, and her sister Beril.


	12. Piggyback

**Piggyback**, adv., (1) _up on the back and shoulders_ (2) _on or as if on the back of another_

"Up! Up! Up!"

Elwing was four, and there was a great deal that she could not grasp in spite of her mother's attempts to educate her. She did not understand why her grandpapa had gray hair and a lined faced and only one hand when her grandmamma was looked as young as her papa and even more beautiful, and she did not understand why her parents decided to move into those dreary caves when they could live with Grandpapa and Grandmamma forever.

She did not mind so much, though. Spending time with Grandpapa and Grandmamma was better than living in those caves with her younger brothers, who took up so much of Mama and Papa's time nowadays – and that was the time when they were not sitting in those fancy chairs and talking to people.

Grandmamma lifted Elwing up onto her shoulders and said, "Aren't you a giantess, my little swan?"

"Am I? Am I a giantess?"

"So tall," Grandmamma confirmed. "You might be taller than my father now."

"Was Great-Grandpapa very tall?" she asked. He had been killed by Dwarves the same year that Elwing had been born, so she had never met him.

"He was the tallest Elf in Beleriand, and the only Man I know to rival his height is Tuor son of Huor. I do not know how tall _he_ is, for the Eagles did not tell me, only that he is very tall."

"Do the Eagles come by often?"

"Not often, my love. They like to come by and say hello to your Grandpapa and me because we once did a great thing together."

"Was it have Papa?" Elwing asked, grimacing. Mama and Papa talked about the twins that way sometimes.

Grandmamma laughed. "No. – We took a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown."

"Oh," Elwing said, remembering the story. "I knew that. Then Great-Grandpapa made a necklace."

"Yes, he did," Grandmamma said in a sad voice. "Would you like to see the necklace, my little love?"

"Yes, please."

Grandmamma took her to a room in the small house where Elwing had never been before, and there, lying on a table, was the most beautiful thing that Elwing had ever seen in her life.

"It's _incredible._"

"Isn't it?" Grandmamma said, like it didn't mattered. "Your grandpapa wanted two, but – One was enough."

"Why don't you wear it?"

"I do, sometimes, but it is too grand to wear daily. Your grandpapa likes me to wear it sometimes. He says I am more beautiful than Elbereth when I do."

Grandpapa said a lot of things like that to Grandmamma, and she giggled and blushed when he did.

"Can I wear it?"

"Of course." Grandmamma helped Elwing off of her shoulders, then she put the necklace around her neck. Elwing ran to the mirror and stared at herself in amazement. "Aren't you pretty?"

"I love it!"

"Many do, but it doesn't matter. It can't. It cannot bring you happiness."

Elwing wasn't listening. She was still staring at herself in the mirror.


	13. Behemoth

**Behemoth**, noun, _something of monstrous size, power, or appearance_

Aerin had not inherited the size of her forefather Hador Lorindol, though she had his golden hair, so she had often been teased by her cousins and playmates. Little Aerin, they called her. She laughed at all their jokes when the other children said them, but she stewed or cried, alternatively, in private.

The only one who had been willing to defend her was Hurin, who was as small as she was. Only, Hurin had an excuse, for he had his height from his mother's people. He was also the son of their lord, and few were willing to bully one who would have the power to make life difficult for them when they grew. He told them to let her be or that she had more cleverness than the whole lot of them put together, and they became gentler with her. She had always liked Hurin, and she would try to be kind as she could be to his widow and children because of that, later.

Hurin could not protect her after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, however. He had been killed, though there were some who said he had been taken into Angband for a reason only Morgoth knew. The Easterlings overwhelmed the women, the children, and the infirm, and the brutes acted as though Dor-lomin were theirs and always had been.

Aerin was the only woman of the House of Hador who was young and unwed when the Easterlings invaded, and few thought anything of that except Brodda, who saw the light in Morwen Eledhwen's eyes and feared what their sons might do when they grew. They were defenseless children now, but in ten years? Twenty?

He sought legitimacy, and to gain that he must marry Aerin.

Aerin was cleverer than the whole lot of them, so she knew better than to fight it too much. Her mother still lived, and two of her sisters, and she would not have them killed because of her actions. She accepted, and so she became the enemy of her people, who understood her actions but could not accept them.

Morwen did. Morwen knew that the Easterlings were too large a force, too monstrous a people, for them to fight directly, for she had learned to strategize in her youth at the knee of Emeldir the Man-Hearted. Morwen listened when Aerin came to give her what aid she could, too proud to accept it gladly but reduced enough to accept it.

It was like her childhood with Hurin who had defended her, only Morwen could not defend her, only help her bolster her own defenses. It was enough, all the same.

She kept her womb empty with pennyroyal that Morwen handed her when she gave the other woman wheat and milk, and she took it gladly. She would not help Brodda to dominate her people, not by allowing him create other monsters. Her empty womb angered him, but it made her stand taller.

She fought her demons in her own way.

Notes:

Aerin, if you'll remember, is the kinswoman of Hurin who aids Morwen (and Nienor) and is forced to marry Brodda the Easterling. Then Turin shows up and pretty much signs her death certificate. Oh, Turin.

This took a turn for the unpleasant. I'll try for something for cheerful for "quirk".


	14. Quirk

**Quirk**, vb., _curve, twist_

Adanel frowned at her – friend? ally? confidante? – companion as Haleth of the Haladin smiled. She was the same age as Adanel, or older by a few years, and yet she seemed so much more alive. Maybe it was because Haleth the Huntress had no children, or maybe it was because her concerns were so much more worldly than Adanel's deep thoughts. All the same, she watched Haleth's lips quirk and wondered what she was thinking.

"They call themselves Drughu, and they are companions and friends of my people," the chieftain said.

"They are not of the Haladin, and yet they accompany you and go where you may," Adanel repeated. "I am afraid that I do not understand, my friend."

"You do not need to understand. You need only to listen. They are nothing like the foul beasts that serve the Dark One, and they have proven their worth as friends and fellow soldiers time and time again. There is little for your people to understand except for the fact that _they will not be sent away_. Not over the mountains, not south."

Adanel saw now that the quirk of her lips was no sign of amusement. Haleth smiled when she was unhappy as well as when she was pleased or entertained, and none knew her moods well now that she had neither father nor brother to decipher them for the hapless.

Her sister-in-law was sometimes useful, but even she had her problems. Also, she was not here now.

"I beg your pardon. I did not mean to cause offense, and I know that if _you_ trust them there will be no chance of their siding with Morgoth." The Chieftain of the Haladin did not suffer turncoats or fools, and anyone who sided with Morgoth instead of their own people was both. "It is only that their ugliness makes many uncertain, and I think that the other members of the Council would feel more comfortable if you would swear by them."

"I will, and gladly, if one of them proves himself a man and will ask me instead of sending me his sister or his wife to make his case for him."

Adanel bristled. "I am my own woman, Huntress."

"Aye, and you are loyal to those you love. I do not blame you for it, for I would do anything for my twin or my father in days now past. Yet, you cannot do things merely because they ask you to do them or wish for your council."

"How do you know that I did not approach you because of my own uncertainty?"

"You do not judge so quickly or so easily as them. You know there is evil in all Men's hearts, and you would wait to see if the individual proves himself wicked instead of judging by the group." Haleth's smile was true now, and lovely, for her lips curved like a bow. "You are good. So are the Drughu."

"I believe you," Adanel said, and she did.

Notes:

Adanel and Haleth were previously seen in "Gnomic", and they are still at the Council at Estolad. The Drughu are the Druedan/Pukel-Men from _Lord of the Rings_, who had a close friendship with the Haladin.


	15. Voracious

**Voracious**, adj., (1) _having a huge appetite; ravenous_ (2) _excessively eager; insatiable_

Edhellos smiled at her granddaughter as she served herself an enormous portion of food and knew that she was growing again. Finduilas, though she was as beautiful as her fair great-aunt and as gracious and graceful as her queenly great-grandmother, had quite an appetite whenever she was in the middle of one of her growth spurts, and it was impossible to keep the larder of Tol Sirion well-stocked enough for its golden lady.

Hallas, Finduilas's mother and Edhellos's daughter-in-law, sighed. "Finduilas will be taller than King Thingol at this rate!" She had been married to a Noldo for nearly fifty years, and yet Thingol was still her king, not Fingolfin or even her kinsman Finrod. Edhellos did not know if it was a symptom of her stubbornness or her Telerin heritage that could not be fought, but it was a small thing. Edhellos liked her daughter-in-law, all in all.

"I will not!" Finduilas protested, but then she continued to eat as though her mother had said nothing.

"Perhaps she will take after her Vanyarin ancestors instead," Edhellos said. "They are shorter but sturdier in build, and she already has their golden hair and blue eyes."

Hallas considered this. "It would be easier on me than if she ended up looking like your kinswoman Aredhel, for my family dislikes the fact that I married one of Golodhrim in the first place, let alone a prince of theirs. Orodreth's hair was his sole recommendation to them."

"So I hear," Edhellos said lightly. Her daughter-in-law's mother had made that very clear at the wedding. "It's a shame that our peoples cannot get along better. I know that many had hopes that the Mithrim and the Noldor would be brought closer together by your marriage."

"It is a shame, but perhaps it would never have been a problem had the Golodhrim not killed our kinsmen in the Swan Haven or taken hold of our lands that were stolen by the Dark One and never returned – or even offered as a courtesy – to our king." Hallas's smile was false now, and Edhellos's expression was blank.

Finduilas stopped eating. "Oh, will you stop arguing? You do this every time Grandmother comes to visit us, Mama, and I grow tired of it. You too, Grandmother. It is time that we let bygones be bygones."

Edhellos and Hallas turned to look at their descendant quickly before turning back to briefly meet eyes. Yes, she was a Vanya, through and through, for she had none of the pride of the Noldor or the Teleri. She would not come to Middle-earth to seek lands to rule or live apart from the other Elves to glory in independence.

Finduilas, though circumstance made it seem otherwise at the moment, had no hunger, and time would only prove her grandmother right or wrong.

Edhellos personally hoped that she would be proven wrong. She could not imagine how boring it would be to have a contented granddaughter who sewed and sang and never desired.

Notes:

Edhellos/Eldalote is the wife of Angrod and mother of Orodreth, making her grandmother of Finduilas and Gil-galad. (She previously appeared in "Allusion" under her Quenya name.) Hallas is their Sindarin mother, whose name I borrowed from a name formerly used for Gil-galad.


	16. Carminative

**Carminative**, adj., _expelling gas from the stomach or intestines so as to relieve flatulence or abdominal pain or distension_

PLACEHOLDER FOR CHAPTER 16. SUGGESTIONS WELCOME ON HOW THE HELL TO MAKE AN OKAY DRABBLE WITH THIS WORD.


	17. Katzenjammer

**Katzenjammer**, noun, (1) _hangover_ (2) _distress_ (3) _a discordant clamor_

Rian groaned in distress as the noise of the hall waking up reached her where she sat with her cousin, her mother, and her aunt, and her cousin Morwen spared her one of her small, true smiles that meant more than all the flattery in the world.

"You should not have drank so much last night," she scolded gently. Morwen only bothered with gentleness when it came to her young cousin, who she said often was too good for this marred world.

Rian smiled at her, her eyes heavy and scratchy, and she said, "It was a celebration. Was I supposed to be as sober and queenly as you, Eledhwen? The Folk of Hador would think us Beorings an unhappy people then."

Morwen pressed a kiss to her temple, and Rian leaned into her warm side. Let Lady Gloredhel think her as cold and harsh as the winds of Ladros, for her cousin knew her better and truly. "Let them think what they will. Your wine only made you ill, and now you will be useless to us all morning." She brushed the hair out of Rian's face.

"My plans succeeded!" Rian said – japed, rather –, and their mothers chuckled obligingly. Rian noticed their cups were filled with water too, and they were pale and drawn. She was not the only drinker amongst them last night, or so it would appear.

"Yes, you are a master strategist. We should send you to Hithlum and watch as your fine generalship leads to the Dark One's defeat."

Rian demurred. "I wouldn't want to steal another's glory."

"Your generosity serves you well," Morwen said dryly. "Songs will be sung in your honor."

"I do not want songs sung in my honor," the daughter of Belegund protested. "I would rather sing them myself, and they will be on much more pleasant subjects than war and death."

"Shall they be songs of love?" her aunt teased, and Morwen frowned at her silly, simple-minded mother.

"No," Rian answered. "I would sing songs of flowers and trees."

"Like the Green Elves," her mother said, surprised. Their people, after all, had always allied themselves with the High Elves of Nargothrond, Tol Sirion, and Dorthonion.

"All Elves love the trees and the flowers," Morwen told the second woman sternly, and her aunt's eyes fell in the face of Morwen's sharp-eyed glare. "They appreciate beauty wherever they find it, and nature is one such place."

Their conversation had become too tense, and Rian, with her gentle heart, could not stand arguments.

"Quiet, quiet," Rian begged in a low voice. "My head hurts."

Morwen's expression softened, and she said, "You should go lie down and rest, and I will bring you a cup of tea to soothe your stomach and your head."

Rian took her hand and squeezed it in her own. "Thank you, cousin. You treat me so well."

"I love you so well," Morwen corrected evenly, and Rian knew it to be true.

"And I love you, dear one."


	18. Fetter

**Fetter**, noun, (1) _a chain or shackle for the feet_ (2) _something that confines; restraint_

Niniel – _Nienor_, she corrected herself with a thick throat and an electrical surge of horror – felt like her entire body was weighted down, like she had been chained to the ground by something stronger than Angainor. Was this a normal reaction, or had she become the first woman to experience it? She could not remember her mother telling her tales about sisters and brothers marrying unwittingly, about those sisters' bellies becoming bigger with the children of their own flesh and blood.

What would Morwen think of her? She had found Turin, yes, like they had hoped, but she had disgraced the lines of Hador and Beor both. Unwittingly, yes, but when had lack of knowledge saved anyone before? Nienor Niniel's crimes were many, her sins their equal and yet worse.

(Niniel knew, with painful clarity, that Urwen Lalaith would not have done such a thing, that Turin would know her to be his sister when he first glimpsed her. Perhaps he would have blessed her betrothal with Brandir the Lame or another man of the House of Haleth, and they would not live this cursed, unclean life together.

(Niniel had not her sister's good fortune to die young, however.)

Were there even laws against incest, or was it something that all knew from the cradle? She could not know, for she had never learned the laws of her people in the lawless land where she had grown to adulthood. Nienor never thought to ask her mother, either, and why should she? Meeting Turin was supposed to be a reunion between brother and sister. A happy occasion, she had imagined it to be, not an occasion for _this_ to occur.

_What had she done?_

She wished that she and her mother had never sought her elder brother, that King Thingol and his lady wife had been unhelpful. Perhaps they would have sought her cousin Beren instead, and Nienor could not need to fear he would wish to marry her when he had the most beautiful woman to ever live as his wife.

She fled, but she was not as swift as the deer today. Her ankles were chained to the ground, and she ran in order to flee those fetters. It was impossible, however, because her heart was chained as tightly.

She could not see for her tears, and she felt the branches of trees of Brethil on her. Did they punish her, or was it only her imagination? She did not know whether she needed punishment or salvation right now.

She wanted to escape her fetters so much, however, that she did not pause to think on her actions. She ran and ran, and then she reached the Leap of the Deer. She did not hesitate, though she knew herself to be no deer, no creature blessed by any of the Powers.

She jumped, and for a moment, she was flying.

For a moment, Nienor Niniel was free of her prison and free of Morgoth's curse.

Then she came down.


	19. Sacrosanct

**Sacrosanct**, adj., (1) _most sacred or holy; inviolable_ (2) _treated as if holy; immune from criticism or violation_

"Do not lay hands on the Chieftain of the Haladin!" roared one of the archers in a fiercer voice that many of the Elves imagined could come from such a small, Mannish woman.

The Elf in question, who had dared make a move towards Haleth the Huntress, jumped and took a quick and automatic step backwards, and her companions all stepped back as well. They might be subjects, or maybe servants, to the Feanorians, but that mattered not at all in the Haladin camp at Estolad.

They were a small people, short of stature and short on people, but they had pride enough. No one dared to violate their customs, and even those who had pride of their own were wary. They had lasted for three or four weeks, or so rumor said, in their stockade with no help until Prince Carnistir and his men rode to their rescue.

King Finrod had said many things of Men, but no one had believed them until the Huntress. Hardy and brave they were, and they were as stubborn as Dwarves and as noble as Elves, in their own way.

Those sent to treat with the Huntress saw the nobility of a savage, not an Elven princess, in her painted face and guardswomen in leathers, carrying bows inside her tent, but there was a nobility all the same.

"Forgive me," the lady said. "I meant no harm."

"No harm was meant," the Huntress repeated in her strange accent, and her smile was small, insincere, and dangerous. "Yet, it is against our traditions for our chieftain to be touched by strangers. I must advise you ladies to be accustomed to our ways before you attempt to treat with our people again."

"Lady Haleth?"

"_Chieftain _is the accepted mode of address," the same archer hissed, her dark eyes burning like twin flames, but she was waved off by her chieftain.

"I believe our audience is over, ladies. I have other business to accomplish today, for tomorrow I am to meet with the other Men at our council. Much must be done."

The chief of the diplomats pursed her lips, and her eyes grew soft and wet. Fearful. "I am afraid that we have not finished our business, Chieftain."

"So we have not. You will have to return another day."

Another of the archers snickered.

"Perhaps you will not, however," the Chieftain mused aloud. "Maybe your prince will understand my meaning by then, impossible though my dream may seem, and he will cease sending me delegations after delegations. – No, he is a stubborn man, and I know something of stubbornness. He will not leave me be until I am his vassal or I am out of his way."

She considered this, and another of her archers said, "It is time, Chieftain."

They followed her like well-trained, Elvish warriors, and there was no doubt in them that the Elves could see. They knew their life's purpose and were proud and honored to serve under their untouchable chieftain.

Notes:

Carnister is the Quenya form of "Caranthir" (lit. "red face").

Remember when I said Andreth was my favorite? I lied. (Or did I?)

I don't think that the Haladin actually had a rule against touching the Chieftain, but I think someone might have made it up and the rest rolled with it to keep Caranthir's people from getting in her face. Haleth is the only person in _The Silmarillion_ with a sense of humor, after all.


	20. Plaudit

**Plaudit**, noun, (1) _an act or round of applause_ (2) _enthusiastic approval – usually in the plural_

"Well done! Well done!" Grandmamma applauded enthusiastically as her granddaughters took their bows. It had not been the best performance of the coming of the Men into the West, but grandmothers were allowed their little delusions. Everything her grandchildren did was a sign of their genius, and this was no different.

Belwen – the oldest and the leader of the lot – beamed, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed. "Did you truly like it? You are not saying it because you love us?"

"Well, I do love you –" Her grandmother laughed at her crestfallen face. "Belwen my love, when I have I ever deceived you? Hmm? I praise you because you deserve it and because your young cousin makes a very good Haleth of the Haladin. And a prettier one than the Huntress herself, I imagine."

Celegil flushed, delighted.

"You ought to perform it at the Yule celebrations. Your mamas will be so happy to see you do it, and I cannot imagine a more enjoyable performance for the other villagers to experience." She said _villagers_ intentionally, because too many years had passed now for them to be considered _refugees_ anymore. "It is a good reminder of where we got our start and of the loyalty we owe to Lord Earendil and Lady Elwing."

Their grandmother had never personally met their lord and lady, who lived across the river and amongst the Elves, but she knew them by reputation – he was handsome and kind-natured and she, prideful and beautiful beyond words – and had seen Lord Earendil speak with their council of elders several times when he was ashore. Nobody in the village said that they owed the lord and lady loyalty on their own merits but because they owed loyalty to their old chieftains and lords. It was all they had now.

Their grandmother plastered a brighter smile on her face. "Perhaps Lord Earendil and Lady Elwing will come with their sons, and they will clap for your performance."

"If they come, I don't want to do the Coming of Men into the West," Belwen announced. "I would like to do a performance of Beren and Luthien, or the Fall of Gondolin."

"Those stories might touch too close to home, my love."

"They're more _important_."

"Are they? How could Beren and Luthien meet if Beor his ancestor had never come over the mountains, and how would Tuor warn Turgon if his ancestors had never crossed over either? The little things matter too. It is simply a matter of waiting until the time comes to figure out why."

"I still want to play Haleth the Huntress," Celegil said stubbornly.

"Every girl wants to be Haleth the Huntress when she is your age. You are lucky to receive applause for it."

Celegil grinned, and her missing teeth showed.

"Why don't I go and fetch your mothers from the kitchen, and you can show them your play. Then they can help us decide whether you should perform it or another. Is that acceptable?"

Beleth frowned. "_I suppose_."

Notes:

What's this? Original characters? Why, yes. - I've always been interested in the life of Men after the destruction of the House of Beor and the House of Hador, so I figured that they settled across Sirion from the Elves of Nargothrond, Doriath, and Gondolin. Everyone is happy! And no one is.


	21. Demotic

**Demotic**, adj., (1) _of, relating to, or written in a simplified form of the ancient Egyptian hieratic writing_ (2) _common, popular_ (3) _of or relating to the form of Modern Greek that is based on everyday speech_

A hand came out of nowhere and snatched the letter out of Artanis's grasp, and the sole daughter of Earwen growled. Her cousin did not care, and laughed, "What in the name of Varda, Manwe, and Nienna is this, my cousin? It looks like the scratches of birds' feet."

"It is Cirth," Artanis said stiffly.

"Cirth?" Irisse wrapped her tongue around the word, Grey Elven and foreign it was, and laughed again. "Is it a letter from one of your savage relatives?"

"It is a letter from Melian the Maia, Queen of Doriath."

"Oh, she is _worse_."

"Worse? How can she be _worse_? – And the Grey Elves are not _bad_, Irisse." Artanis could not help but think it was because they were Teleri that her uncle Nolofinwe, her aunt Lalwen, and her cousins looked down upon those of the Fenced Land. There was no other reason to scorn a kingdom where a Maia sat at the side of its king, and she shuddered when she thought of the precedence, the proof of their disdain.

"Who would give up a life of comfort in the Blessed Realm for a kingdom of Dark Elves? The only worth they have is as subjects."

Artanis thought of her mother's kin, proud and noble and a million times Irisse's betters. "I disagree."

Irisse sneered. "You _would_, wouldn't you? You are more Teler than your brothers, I swear."

"How can I be? We all share a mother."

"You know what I mean, Nerwen."

Artanis snatched the letter from Irisse's hand and viciously wished that Irisse would experience the disdain she felt for the Dark Elves firsthand, perhaps _at_ their hands. "I must ask your pardon, but I do not."

"Are you empty-headed? – Do not answer that question, I beg of you. I know the answer all too well." Irisse tossed her head. "You are incomprehensible. You are clever and talented, and you could rule with one of your darling brothers or anywhere you like. Yet, you follow about this Maia-Queen and act as though you are her apprentice, not her distant kin by marriage."

"I seek wisdom, no matter who offers it."

Irisse pulled a face. "What wisdom can the Dark Elves offer you?"

"They have their own kinds of knowledge, long lost to us who lived in the light of the Undying Lands. It is the height of foolishness to ignore their centuries of experience here and think that we are their superiors merely because we studied at the knees of the Valar."

"You honestly believe that."

"Yes."

"Perhaps you do have an empty head."

"If anyone has an empty head in this family, it is you, Irisse."

Fortunately, her cousin was in a good mood today, and she laughed. "Think as you will, Artanis. I know your kinsmen to be common, but you must think well of them, mustn't you?"

"I must, and I do. I know their worth."

"You must show it to me it when you have proof. You never shall, though."

Notes:

Artanis Nerwen is Galadriel, who was named "Galadriel" by Celeborn, who she either hasn't met yet or whose name she hasn't accepted yet. Istafinde Irisse is my version of Aredhel's name, if you remember from "Abandon".

Somehow, I don't think these proud cousins got on well. Or at all.


	22. Grift

**Grift**, vb., (1) _to obtain money illicitly, as in a confidence game_ (2) _to acquire money or property illicitly_

"Mine!"

Findis's mouth dropped open and she took a step forward as her younger sister triumphantly stuck a flag in the sandcastle that the elder had spent hours working on. It didn't matter to her that the flag was made out of a branch and a bit of a napkin that Irime had torn off (and that would make their mother very unhappy when she saw). She didn't care either that sticking a flag on top of a sandcastle was not recognized as a legitimate transfer of property amongst the Noldor or the Teleri. All that mattered was that yet again her ten-year-old sister had stolen something of hers, and no one would defend her property rights.

Well, not _no one_.

"Mother! Mother! Mother!" she shouted.

Indis came running. "What is it? Are you hurt?"

"Irime stole my castle!"

Indis was distinctly not impressed. This entire holiday to the seashore had been a trial to her poor nerves because Finwe insisted (and she agreed) that it wasn't a family holiday without Feanaro and his young family, but that did not mean that Feanaro had been civil. Nerdanel had tried her hardest, and Nelyo was charming – but still Indis was stressed. This little argument did not help matters.

"It's a sandcastle, Findis, and she did not _steal_ it. Take the flag out, and it is yours again."

Findis did so grudgingly.

"Irime, _is that a napkin?_"

"No, it's part of a napkin. I cut it off with Father's knife, so I could make a flag and claim the sandcastle."

Indis turned an impressive color. "I do not understand you girls. I really don't. Can't."

"You don't have any sisters," Irime pointed out, which was actually rather astute of her.

She picked up the flag of napkin and branch from where Findis had thrown it, and she went over to where Nolofinwe was building a sandcastle. She stuck the flag on top of his, and he groaned but let her claim his castle as her rightful property. He was too indulgent when it came to his precious little Irime, and Findis just knew that he would come to regret it some day. He had to, or it wouldn't be fair.

"_You_ need to be kinder to your sister," Indis told her elder daughter seriously.

"She could be kinder to me," she retorted. "I didn't _ask_ her to steal my property."

"It is just a sandcastle, Findis."

"No, it is _my_ sandcastle, and she tried to take it from me."

"_Findis_ –"

"_Maybe_ Irime shouldn't try to steal my things all the time. Then I wouldn't be cruel to her."

Findis stomped off and waited for someone to come and apologize to her, even if it were only Nerdanel in an attempt to be kind towards her sister-in-law when Feanaro wouldn't be.

Findis waited and waited until supper, but no one came. The only sign that someone noticed she had been gone was that her father asked her what took her so long.


	23. Riposte

**Riposte**, noun, (1) _a fencer's quick return thrust following a parry_ (2) _a retaliatory verbal sally; retort_ (3) _a retaliatory maneuver or measure_

Swordsmanship was always romanticized with ideas like "ringing steel" and other, similar nonsense, but Meril's experience had been of her sister-in-law shouting at her and the heavy sounds of wooden practice swords hitting each other or people. That was probably because Haleth had yet to allow her to use a real sword, even to hold hers for longer than a minute.

"You aren't trained yet," Haleth said time and time again, but training seemed to take forever. "You need more time to learn because you aren't as young as most who are taught," Haleth said, and Meril bristled because she wasn't old, only twenty years old and the mother of a young child, thank you. "Patience," she said, and every time Meril wanted to ask Haleth what she knew of patience when she had dove into a battlefield to avenge her twin and her father without a second's thought.

"Careful," Haleth said now. "You don't want to be _too_ badly bruised."

"Maybe I will bruise you," Meril retorted, and Haleth grinned. It was not a pleasant grin, but her sister-in-law was not a _pleasant_ woman. She was a good woman and a good chieftain, but _pleasantness_ was something that she had not retained. Or perhaps she had never known it.

Meril knew so little of her husband's kin, and she never had the chance to learn more before he was killed and his father soon after him. She remembered that her husband had been handsome and kind, and his father, so stern yet gentle; but Haleth had been unapproachable in those days. Unwed sisters were an unwelcome relation to every new bride, but Haleth had been unique, even then. What was a bride to do with a new sister who refused to consider marriage and preferred her bow to a man's touch? It was unprecedented, to Meril's knowledge.

"You are getting better." She said it grudgingly, if only because she hated giving compliments.

"You could be getting worse, Haleth."

"Ha!" Her sister-in-law jabbed at Meril's side. "Haleth the Huntress is the master – nay, mistress – of each and every martial sport, and she can be mastered by neither Man nor Elf. Nor Dwarf, for that matter."

"Who told you that, my dear sister?"

"Everyone has. Not in so many words, however."

"The Haladin do not like handing out praise."

"Nay, but sometimes we must. It is _sometimes_ deserved." She dodged a move Meril made. "You are not a complete waste, Meril. You have some talent at this. It is a shame it was not nurtured when you were younger."

"My parents would never have allowed it."

Talent or not, Meril was no challenge to Haleth the Huntress, who had experience on her side. She quickly disarmed her sister and tripped her, and Meril fell to the ground, defeated and schooled. Haleth held out a hand to her and said, "Your parents are not here now."

Meril accepted the hand and was pulled to her feet. "No, I am my own woman."


	24. Canorous

**Canorous**, adj., _pleasant sounding; melodious_

During the day, the spiders hid from the holy light of the Sun, and the few women who were trained in arms rested. Eilinel did not count herself amongst their number, though she did wield the long knife her husband had given her with some talent. She was merely trying to stay alive, and if she happened to kill a couple of the fell creatures that inhabited the Valley of Dreadful Death while she did so, so be it.

Emeldir did not share her hesitance to name herself a warrior.

"You fight alongside us," Lord Beren's wife said, "and you do so well enough. Why do you refuse to admit to your talents?" Lady Emeldir looked at her like she looked at some of the shier children on occasion, as though she couldn't understand why anyone would want to disguise their talents. Eilinel hoped that she would not be accused of false modesty – "a trait that is no more attractive than arrogance" – like little Lady Rian had been when she told her great-aunt with a blush that she wasn't good at singing at all.

"I do not name myself a warrior," Eilinel said at last, "because I do not want to be a warrior. I never have, and I never will. It is an unfortunate series of circumstances that has led me to this life, but it is not one that I can revel in as a few of our number do." (Some of the warrior women were genuinely pleased at the chance to exhibit their skills, even amongst all this horror, and Eilinel would never understand them.) "I have always preferred music to war."

"Do you sing?"

"Yes, and I play the harp. I had to leave mine behind in Ladros, however."

Emeldir nodded approvingly. She did not want anything unnecessary brought with them, and harps were certainly unnecessary to their survival. "Will you sing a song for us?"

"I can, yes. What would you like to hear?"

One of the younger fighters said, "I should like to hear something cheerful. A love song, perhaps."

Eilinel thought of Gorlim, so brave and valiant, and she shook her head. "Please, anything but a love song." She feared it would be a lament before it even left her lips.

"How about a tale of someone brave and true?" one of the girls said. "Perhaps the song of Prince Fingon and the dragon?"

Had not the dragon survived the encounter? Eilinel would prefer a story where the evil was truly vanquished. "I know the song of Haleth the Huntress," she said. "That might be more inspirational."

"I agree," the young warrior from before said. She smiled puckishly then and added, "It is only a shame she never fell in love."

Emeldir slapped her arm perhaps too hard, but she was smiling too.

So Eilinel sang, and the women, the children, and the injured or elderly of the House of Beor gathered around her and listened in appreciative silence.

(She died that night.)


	25. Nascent

**Nascent**, adj., _coming or having recently come into existence_

PLACEHOLDER


	26. Hallmark

**Hallmark**, noun, (1) _a mark put on an article to indicate origin, purity, or genuineness_ (2) _a distinguishing characteristic, trait, or feature_

PLACEHOLDER


	27. Flehmen

**Flehman**, noun, _a mammalian behavior in which the animal inhales with the mouth open and upper lip curled to facilitate exposure of the vomeronasal organ to a scent or pheromone_

PLACEHOLDER CHAPTER. SUGGESTIONS FOR STORY WELCOME.


	28. Laudable

**Laudable**, adj., _worthy of praise, commendable_

"Well done! Well done!" Earwen clapped for her daughter as she ran up to her, red-cheeked and breathless after outrunning the boys in the seaside village where a Prince of the Noldor and a Princess of the Teleri decided to build their home and raise their children. "I am amazed at you. Even Aikanar was not so fast when he was your age, and he is the quickest of your brothers."

Aikanar had her build instead of Arafinwe's stockier frame, which he had from his Vanyarin mother, whereas Artanis had a fusion of the two – her mother's height and her father's stoutness. Somehow, that had translated into speed when it came to footraces.

"Thank you very much, Mama," Artanis said, beaming.

"I wish your father and brothers were home to see it, but we can tell them about it at supper." Then Earwen received a flash of inspiration. "I can tell them your mother-name when they return home as well."

"You are naming me!"

"Uh-huh."

"What is it? Can you tell me now?"

"I suppose so," Earwen teased. "What do you think of 'Nerwen'?" Earwen was no Noldo, and she had not their women's gift for prophetic names. Amongst the Teleri, a single name was picked by both parents, and so Earwen was unprepared for such a tradition. She had clumsily named Findarato "Ingoldo" and Angarato "Angamaite", but she thought that "Aikanar" was clever. She wondered if "Nerwen" would be another Ingoldo or an Aikanar.

"Man Maiden?"

"I think it apt," Earwen said.

"I suppose it must be," Artanis Nerwen said in an odd voice. "Can I go inside? I wish to write a friend of mine a letter."

"Go ahead, my dear."

Inside, Artanis Nerwen stared at herself in the mirror for hours. She lifted the length of her braid and then unraveled it to reveal hair the color of gold and silver. She looked carefully at her face and saw the face of a girl that had rightfully been called beautiful by even those who were unrelated to her. It was not a masculine beauty either.

She flexed her uncovered arms and winced at the muscles revealed. Was that what her mother had meant by naming her thusly? How could Artanis convince her mother not to name her that at the supper table, where her brothers could tease her freely. Could she gain femininity by the time her father and brothers came home from their fishing trip? Then perhaps Mama could name her something else.

She sighed and dropped her head into her hands. She had hoped that she, like Aikanar, could drop her father-name and use her mother-name when it was given to her. She did not like being named "Noblewoman", but she would like being known as "Man Maiden" less.

Perhaps she could gain another name from someone else, but who would give her such a gift and why?

She would have to do something to deserve it, she decided. She would think of _what_ later.


	29. Fuliginous

**Fuliginous**, adj., (1) _sooty; obscure, murky_ (2) _having a dark or dusky color_

"You have soot on your cheek, dear," the old woman – Beleth, she said her name was – wiped at Niniel's cheek. She smiled at her fondly. "You remind me of my niece Rian."

"Was she fair-haired?"

Beleth chuckled throatily. "No, no. She had dark brown hair. She was beautiful, too, though not as beautiful as her cousin. – It is this damned war, you know. Her husband died in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and she died soon afterwards from grief. She was such a lovely girl. So full of song and joy. Some people are not meant for these times, and Rian was one of them."

"Am I one of them?"

"I do not know. It is impossible to tell until the end."

"Turambar is not one," Niniel said determinedly.

"Certainly not. Your future husband is a fierce man. A warrior. I cannot imagine that he would be happy in a time of peace, unless you were with him." Beleth smiled again, but this smile was sad and wistful. "My husband used to tell me that he could weather anything if I were at his side. I could not follow him to war, however, so there he died. It was the Battle of Sudden Flame that took him and my father."

"That must have been terrible."

"Yes, it was. I had my children, however, and we came here where it was safer." Beleth poked at the fire indifferently, doing it to do something, and some ash flew up. "I had some family here too. My brothers' wives came with their daughters, and my aunt Emeldir was here too. Then my nieces grew and married, and my cousin returned and took Aunt Emeldir away too. My children were grown sooner than a mother would have liked, and they left me as well."

"Do children _have_ to leave their parents when they are grown?" Niniel asked. She tried to imagine her future son, but she could only picture Turambar with his dark hair and blazing eyes. What if the child looked like her, though? Or one of the parents who she couldn't remember? Or Turambar's parents, if he had them? (She couldn't imagine him as a child. He was too serious for the frolicking of children.)

"That is the way of the world, I'm afraid, my dear. All children grow, and all parents mourn them."

"Do you think that my parents mourn me?"

"If they live, they must. You would have very unnatural parents if they did not miss you, wherever they are."

Niniel again tried to picture her parents in her mind, but it was like trying to see through the thickest fog imaginable and she had to give up because she was giving herself a headache. In the end, she could only see dark hair like Turambar's.

It seemed that her thoughts were too full of him, but perhaps she would find herself more at ease to remember her parents after they had married. Then she wouldn't need to imagine him.


	30. Obviate

**Obviate**, vb., _to anticipate and prevent (as a situation) or to make unnecessary (as an action)_

"No, I am not interested in listening to his offer, and no, I will not change my mind," Haleth said as she walked by her friend. She did not mean to be harsh, but Adanel was an _elf-friend_, as they called themselves now. Dear Adanel and her husband would hear no reason no matter how loudly Haleth spoke it, and so Haleth had stopped trying.

She wished Adanel had stopped trying to persuade her otherwise, but she was a stubborn woman. Haleth the Huntress would be remembered as stubborn too, but she had nothing on the wise woman of the House of Marach. Or so she believed, and no one would think to disagree with her on such a minor issue to her face.

"Will you think about it, if only for a second? This would greatly benefit your people!"

"So would staying far away from these Elvish princelings and their war. They have killed enough of their people, so why should I let them kill mine as well?"

"I know that you have had a bad experience," Adanel said. Then she looked at the earth as if even she could not believe that she had described that debacle with Caranthir as "a bad experience" while it was really a wholesale slaughter of the Haladin by the forces of the Dark One while Prince Caranthir watched from the comfort of his own home. "Let me reassure you: King Finrod is nothing like his cousin. He is a good man. Elf. He works alongside the Dwarves in harmony, and he will happily work alongside all Men who wish to swear themselves to his service."

"I do not doubt that he is a good Elf, Adanel, but I doubt how much he truly cares about Men. I do not doubt that he is very fond of Men, but I am fond of my dogs. They serve me too. I would not go out of my way to save one of them from the forces of the Dark One. – Is it not convenient that the land he grants Beor's people is between his caves and the Dark One's fortress? It is fortunate that those lands were free, or else he might have to dispossess a people."

"Must you be so cynical? – Besides, where will you go? Will you return over the mountains like Bereg?"

"Do I seem so foolish to you? No, my people are tired and wish to settle before the orphans grow old enough to be considered orphans no longer, and we will find a land of our own."

"Where? Every acre in Beleriand is owned by some Elvish prince or king or lord."

"They do not live in every acre, however. We will swear loyalty to no Elf, but we are not unwilling to ally with them. We are a fierce people, and we will defend the lands we claim _without_ needing to swear any oaths about it."

"Who will you treat with?"

"Anyone except for Caranthir son of Feanor."


End file.
